


A Thousand Paper Cranes

by Teharissa



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Ouma not Oma, Paranoia woo, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Shuichi's in it at the end but he's mostly mentioned, Sort Of, Too tired for tags rn, postgame au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teharissa/pseuds/Teharissa
Summary: "A thousand paper cranes. It’s an old myth, folklore really, thateveryoneknows. If you fold a thousand origami cranes, if you let your fingers bleed and you follow through on the tedious and boring ritual of folding the same lines in paper over and over again, the gods will offer you what you desire most. They will offer you a single wish. It's a legend, so it’s not real or anything, though that doesn’t really mean much. Who’s to say what’s real or not? Does it really matter if it’s real?"It's six months after the killing game, and Ouma's come a long way since then. In particular, he and a certain detective have grown closer.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	A Thousand Paper Cranes

A thousand paper cranes. It’s an old myth, folklore really, that _everyone_ knows. If you fold a thousand origami cranes, if you let your fingers bleed and you follow through on the tedious and boring ritual of folding the same lines in paper over and over again, the gods will offer you what you desire most. They will offer you a single wish. It's a legend, so it’s not real or anything, though that doesn’t really mean much. Who’s to say what’s real or not? Does it really matter if it’s real?

The real reason Ouma discredits the thought of paper cranes, only allowing it to be a fleeting thought in his mind, is that it’s so unbearably drab. Boring. Dull. It’s monotonous, to repeat the same action a thousand–not even that, even twenty times is too much–with no gain, no reason, nothing beyond some foolish, idealistic hope that a higher being will know what you want most and grant it to you.

A higher being that certainly doesn’t exist, no less. It’s not just boring, it’s stupid, to rely on something that doesn’t exist. It’s stupid to think about wishes and gods and other impossible things (not that he’s against the impossible. He could achieve it if he wanted–the world’s a palace of lies, and it’s his playground. He makes the rules. He decides what’s possible).

Does Saihara believe in his bullshit? It would be _really_ disappointing if he did–though Ouma supposes Saihara is the reason he was thinking about this in the first place. Saihara was the reason he is wasting his time with such foolish thoughts. Shame on him, for leaving behind a lilac crane, perched on the book they’d been reading together. Shame on him for also leaving a note, a rushed scrawl of kana decorating a neon post-it note.

 _Coffee’s in the pot,_ it reads, _sorry I had to leave so early._

There’s also an unfortunately placed smiley face at the bottom of the note, and Ouma wonders when Saihara got the nerve to do something like that. They’ve only been living together for a month now (six months after the game, two months after Saihara tracked him down, refused to let him pretend the game hadn’t happened, refused to let him leave it behind. But it was his choice to come back– _really/_ He certainly didn’t care about what desperate Saihara-chan wanted, didn’t care how angry and hurt he’d sounded two months ago. In fact, he’d _delighted_ in it. Delighted in how much power he held, even after the game ended).

It has only been a month, but Saihara is clearly getting too comfortable with Ouma in his apartment. Which is fine, of course. It’s to Ouma’s advantage, even if it kills him to be in a complex owned by Team Danganronpa, even if his skin crawls to know he’s complying with them in any amount. But that’s just a fun lie, isn’t it? He doesn’t mind at all. He’s more than happy to take what the creators of such a fun, cruel, entertaining game offer him! Or at the very least, that’s what he’ll tell them, that’s what he’ll say to the public, that’s what he’ll do while he plots, while he spends long nights wondering if they’re still watching him.

It’s not like Saihara took this place, and accepted what Team Danganronpa offered him without complaint. It’s not like they don’t have a plan. And it’s not like it matters much because Ouma trusts their plan, and he has a backup in case that one fails, and right now there are more important things to worry about like making sure they have cream and sugar and maybe syrup too if Saihara remembered to stock up on it since he’s not going to drink his coffee _black_ like the stupid Saihara-chan he lives with.

He doesn’t know what to do about the crane, though. 

He could toss it out. Burn it, if he’s feeling particularly inclined, and he could show Saihara exactly how much that little piece of origami meant to him, discarded and dismissed like it’s nothing. It would be more than sufficient evidence that Ouma doesn’t care for him, and never will, and that Saihara’s not only an idiot but also painfully naive to let Ouma into his life.

He’s a parasite and he’ll delight in being a parasite. Saihara–hesitantly, uncertainly, in an effort to understand–offers his hand, and Ouma takes it, but only with his nails biting into Saihara’s skin, only if he can draw blood all the while offering a trademark Cheshire grin.

(Except that’s not true and Saihara knows it too).

He sets the crane on the counter, propping his chin up on his arms, refusing to let curious eyes drift from the frivolous, unnecessary piece of paper. It doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to have anything written on it, perhaps a secret code. He’s tempted to unfold it all of the way, to smooth out the edges, see if something’s maybe on the inside. But–and perhaps it’s just instinct–he knows already that there’s nothing there.

It’s nothing but an origami crane. 

It’s simple. It’s innocent. It’s not a threat.

It’s just so _Saihara_. Did Saihara also think of the myth when he folded this? Did he want that wish, for himself or was he leaving it for Ouma, an offering? Or was it unrelated, only created out of the simple need for productivity?

He pokes it. He worries his lip with his teeth and then he grins again, even though there’s no one watching, even though he’s alone (he wouldn’t be surprised if there were cameras in here, after all), and he stops his line of thought. After all.

“Shumai should try harder than that if he wants to get my attention,” Ouma says to the air, nonchalant, casual. He pushes away from the counter. “There’s nothing more boring than superstition.”

There’s nothing more boring than playing nice. There’s nothing more boring than the quiet, gentle reminders that Saihara doesn’t hate him (maybe). The reminders that sometimes, just sometimes, Saihara can surprise him, can chip away at his lies like a sculptor.

Their shoulders brushed a few days ago, and Ouma hasn’t forgotten the feeling. He’s let himself indulge in it. 

The coffee has grown cold, at this point, and Ouma ignores it–he opens the fridge and let’s his fingers tap the side quietly, a demonstration of impatience that’s purposeful. He supposes he can make something, or he could go out to town, could think over his plans, could consider getting a job, or running away, taking the train and disappearing without a trace.

Saihara could return to an empty apartment and Ouma could entertain the idea that he’d chase him down again, could play with the idea that the first time hadn’t been a fluke and cause of Saihara’s misdirected upset. He can pretend that now (now that they’ve yelled and shouted and laughed and spent far too many nights getting closer, playing games of chess or watching shitty movies) that Saihara isn’t quite as motivated that he’d care enough about Ouma to go after him again. 

He isn’t actually going to run, anyway. He squints into the fridge, lingering, and there’s a sound of a door opening. What time is it? He woke up, spent most the morning in his room, legs propped up against the wall, letting his fingers dance over his laptop’s keyboard and then, thirty minutes ago, he’d discovered the crane. A little bit of math, a few approximations, memories of checking the clock.

“Ouma-kun?”

Saihara’s shift has ended–the math adds up. There are a few more sounds near the front door, perhaps shoes being taken off, bag being set down, and Ouma turns away from the fridge just in time to see Saihara appear in the doorway.

“Welcome home, Saihara-chan,” he says, his expression mischievous, “You missed a lot. I wouldn’t recommend going into your bedroom, the assassins really did a number on the furniture. They’re gone now, but that’s only because I fought them off! You should be glad you were gone, you’d probably have ended up dead.”

Saihara’s eyebrows crease, lost in thought, and his gaze flicker over the kitchen–always observing, always taking things apart. He’s a detective at heart ( _Not really. Saihara’s not a detective at all, though Ouma isn't sure he'll ever stop being a detective, even when the title is nothing more than fiction_ ). Golden eyes linger on the crane, because of course he notices. He always notices.

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?” Saihara’s wearing a scarf and that one hair that never sticks down is especially obvious today, Ouma notices. His eyes come to meet Ouma’s. That feels important, somehow.

(He’s watched their season. He knows why Saihara was so hesitant to meet anyone’s eyes. He wonders how Saihara can look at him now, after everything, even if it was six months ago and they’ve both grown).

“Maybe. Not that you’ll be able to prove it.”

The crane watches. Saihara smiles. Ouma doesn’t believe in gods or wishes or the meaning of a thousand paper cranes, but he lets this one sit on the counter, never once looking at it, yet all too aware of its presence.

One paper crane. It’s not superstition. It doesn’t grant a wish. But maybe, just maybe, Ouma doesn’t think it’s too stupid, if only because Saihara made it.

**Author's Note:**

> I am realizing now that it is very inconvenient to get used to discord for months on end so that when you finally have to write an author's note you can't communicate your thoughts through emojis anymore. Very specific emojis. It's fine, I can do this, so I'm fine :)
> 
> Ouma's weirdly easy and hard to write, simultaneously. I don't think I write him well at all, but I try at least!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading!


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